One of my favourite artists is Andy Goldsworthy:
Everything he does seems precarious, his twig hanging things especially.
I watched a doco where he made one, and when it got blown over he really kept hist cool (I would be so frustrated). So here is my attempt to capture these hanging sticks in a story.
His spindly twig frame carried his dandelion beard. He might be scattered by a light breeze at any moment. But he wasn’t frail. He had the gumption to experiment. Life was a cycle, and he always rebuilt as something new. Frail people stayed broken forever. Next time he’d be butterfly wings and straw.
freyawrightbrough 